


Romance Can Blossom Any Old Time

by Abagail_Snow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abagail_Snow/pseuds/Abagail_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in New York City is iconic, but to Peeta Mellark it’s nothing compared to a girl and her Christmas tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance Can Blossom Any Old Time

The cold had bled all the way through Peeta's heavy wool gloves, and he cupped his hands over his mouth to breathe some heat back into them.

"Here," Finnick said, waving a foil packet of HotHands before flicking it Peeta's way.

Peeta popped the pouch and wrapped his fingers around the delicious warmth, then touched the hot pack to his nose and cheeks. "I don't think I can take this much longer," he said.

"Christmas is in three days," Finnick said as he caught a slipping Christmas tree and propped it against a bare section of the temporary fence. "Light at the end of the tunnel."

Peeta shifted his weight onto one foot to flex his aching joint on his other leg. It was going to be a long night.

"Not soon enough," he said.

The delivery truck pulled up to the curb, slipping into the narrow spot with practiced ease before Castor rolled down the manual window. "Who's coming along for deliveries?"

Finnick yielded to Peeta, but Peeta had already monopolized deliveries through most of the season, and with the truck's bum heater -- that had yet to be fixed, conditions weren't exactly favorable driving around town.

"Nah, you go ahead," Peeta said. "I saw the list for tonight and Annie Cresta ordered another six trees for the hospital."

Finnick's red rimmed ears perked at the sound of her name. "Really? I guess I could make the sacrifice then." He adjusted his flannel scarf to bundle it around his neck more tightly. "What about you? That fox face girl works there too, and she had an eye on you the last time we were there."

"I'm pretty sure she has a name."

"Do you know it?" Finnick said, leveling Peeta with a knowing look.

Marisa? Melissa? He couldn't remember. He was pretty sure she had told him too, and it was unlike him to forget something like that.

"Take that as an omen for why you should go and not me," he reasoned.

Finnick pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I should hook you up with one of Johanna's friends."

"The performance art major?" Peeta had been dragged to one of her improv shows a few years back, before she'd graduated from Tisch. The way she could bounce effortlessly between sweetly innocent to maniacally violent was terrifying.

"Not exactly, she's more into boxing now," Finnick said. "She's joining some quasi-WWE troupe."

"Is this where the friend comes in?"

"Oh, no. The friend is much more boring. Out of towner, recluse type. Took me two hours and a pitcher of sangria to get her to crack a smile, so consider it a challenge."

"Gee thanks," Peeta said humorlessly. 

"I owe you one," Finnick said with a wink.

Castor had opened the trailer and was beginning to load the trees that were set aside for delivery. "Is Haymitch not in yet?" he asked.

"Is Haymitch ever in on time?" Peeta replied, hoisting the last tree over his shoulder to shove it into the back of the truck. He pulled down the metal curtain and latched the rusted lever securely. "It's still early, I should be fine on my own for a while." 

Besides, Castor's brother Pollux usually started around seven, and the Christmas tree stand didn't do much business before dinner on weekdays, which in New York ranged anywhere from five to 2AM -- not that they were open that late, but sometimes Peeta was surprised that they  _weren't._

He accepted a few more packets of HotHands from Finnick and waved the truck off before collapsing against the temporary fence with a sigh that appeared like a cloud around his face.

Haymitch arrived about an hour later with a steaming mug in his hand that smelled a lot like rum. He slouched in his chair beside the money box as he usually did, and only grumbled something brief and incoherent whenever Peeta tried to engage in a conversation. 

By six o'clock it was already dark out, and Peeta struggled with numb fingers to plug in the lights that decorated the store's perimeter. Like a moth to a flame, customers began to funnel in from along West 4th Street. Children swarming around the largest trees on display shouting "That one! That one!" A couple arguing over whether the tree they were mulling over would fit up their stairwell. An elderly woman fawning over a perfectly sculpted wreath. Peeta felt a sense of content at the scene. This was what the holiday season was about.

A tipping tree pulled him from his reverie and he dodged towards it, catching the tree by its crown before it could topple to the ground.

A woman was digging through the stock propped against the fence, oblivious to the scene she had almost caused. She balanced a tree to stand full height on its trunk, then pinched at its branches through the netting before dropping it back against the fence with a huff.

"You need any help?" Peeta asked.

She looked up at him abruptly, eyes round in startle, but her expression softened when she recognized that he worked there. "I need a tree," she said stiffly, like she didn't quite trust him yet.

"Well you came to the right place then," he said, easing into his usual charm. He was met with only a stone faced scowl and had to laugh to keep his spirit from deflating entirely. "Right. How big is your apartment? We've got some short ones which fit great on end tables."

"No, it's got to be tall," she said, turning back to riffle through the stock. "My sister's coming tomorrow, and Christmas is very important to her, and some tiny little tree isn't good enough." She grunted when she pulled another tree loose. "But you guys have your trees bound up so tightly, I can't tell a Douglas from a Noble." She reached into her pocket and Peeta took a step back when she pulled out a switch blade, which she used to slice through the netting and free a few branches. "I need something narrow with loose branches, otherwise it'll never fit. You got anything like that?"

"We've got some loose ones already out," he said hooking a thumb over his shoulder where there were a few trees on display in their small, 9'x13' lot.

"No, those are all too big. I've got about this much room," she said, boxing a perimeter with her hands that was a bit wider than her hips.

Admittedly, Peeta only knew the basics about Christmas trees, but he was pretty sure that what she was describing did not occur in nature. He smiled politely. "These are the Douglas over here. I think the Fraser and Noble are down there," he said pointing toward the far end of the fence. "Then spruces on the other side. I've got clippers if you need it trimmed down, we use the scraps for wreaths, so we don't mind."

"Thanks," she said, the line of her mouth tightening into something almost resembling a smile before she turned towards where he'd directed her.

"So you're not from around here, huh?" he said, following behind her.

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." He picked up a tree that felt a little lighter than the others and held it out for her to inspect. "I'm getting a first Christmas in New York vibe. You said your sister was visiting, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said with slight apprehension. "I moved here in August."

He flashed a warm smile that he hoped would keep her at ease. "Where from?" 

"Pennsylvania," she said cagily. "Right outside of Pittsburgh."

"Wow, I bet you're used to cutting down your own tree."

"Sometimes," she shrugged, the motion causing her braid to flop over her shoulder. "Where do you get these from?"

Peeta laughed. "I have no idea. Somewhere from upstate, I think? I'm a hack. I just unload them off the truck." He scratched a blunt, glove covered finger behind his ear. "Honestly, I don't think I've been in any woods, unless you count Central Park."

By the look on her face, she did not. She stared at him plainly for a moment then turned back to the trees to ask flippantly, "Then how'd you get this job?"

"Would you laugh if I said Boy Scouts?"

"It would definitely raise some flags."

"I used to volunteer in high school -- the owner's a family friend, and well now, it's a force of habit, I guess. Part of the Christmas tradition."

"You mean this isn't a career for you?" she said flatly.

He laughed again. "While I'd love to only work six weeks a year, no, it is not. I'm a pastry chef for Seneca Crane's bakery..." that didn't seem to register, so he decided to elaborate. "It's on Spring St..." she looked at him strangely. "World famous deep fried breakfast goods?" She shook her head. "It's this really famous bakery. Claudius Templesmith raves about it all the time on his show, and it's featured in pretty much every magazine..." he trailed off when he noticed he was bragging. That he was trying to impress her.

"I'll have to try it some time."

He smiled at her sheepishly, trying to ignore the quickening thump he felt in his chest at her approval. "They usually run out of the croissant thing early, but there's other stuff too, all good, really."

"Okay, thanks," she said. He must have been gaping at her, because she thrust a tree between them with a nervous smile. "I'll take this one."

God, he was making her uncomfortable. He stood a bit straighter and cleared his throat. "Great," he said taking on a more formal tone. "Do you have someone to help you?" 

"Help me with what?"

"To carry this tree, it's heavy." It was also about a foot taller than she was.

"I thought you delivered."

"We do, yes, for an extra $20. The truck's already out for the night, but I can put you on the list for tomorrow."

She frowned. "No, that won't work, I need it tonight. I've got to decorate it, and my sister gets in first thing."

Peeta bit his chapped bottom lip as he considered his options. Pollux had just arrived and was already helping a customer with a bundled tree, and Haymitch was actually out of his chair for once, talking with a group of shoppers rather than scowling at them. 

"You know what?" Peeta said. "Don't worry about it. There are enough people to cover the lot, I can run it over to your place, no problem. Where do you live?"

Her face flashed with relief. "Orchard. It's off Allen and Delancey, I think."

It took him a moment to recognize the names and his mind mentally drew out a map of the island, converging to a single point. "Chinatown?"

"Yeah."

He let out a disbelieving chuckle. "That's more than 20 blocks."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. It's just that most of our customers are usually from around the Village."

Recognition seemed to dawn on her, and her already wind burnt cheeks darkened. "And there's probably a stand much closer to my neighborhood," she stated the obvious. "I'm sorry. I work around the corner so I pass this place all the time, and it was the first stand I thought of when I realized I needed a tree. I won't waste anymore of your time."

He gave her an apologetic smile, but it quickly faded when he came to his own realization. If she bought her tree from somebody else, then she would leave. He didn't know this woman, but he knew that he didn't want her to go yet. She had this magnetic effect that drew him towards her. And, yes, okay, maybe he was attracted to her.

"It's fine," he said a bit too hurriedly. "What's 20 blocks? That's nothing."

She looked at him dubiously, but there was a glimmer of something in her gray eyes -- Amusement? Eagerness? Hope? He didn't know, it was enough, however, to suggest that she wasn't quite ready to go either.

"You're going to walk a tree over a mile across the City?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"You must get some commission," she said wryly before handing off her tree.

The only dolly left was the one with a jammed wheel. Peeta struggled to unlock it, but the axle refused to budge. That was fine. He'd just carry the damn thing. He ran the tree through the netting ring an extra two times and then bound it tightly with rope. It wasn't too heavy, and Peeta hoisted it over his shoulder with ease and waved her off when she offered to help, rambling on about center of gravity when she looked offended.

The truth was, Peeta had a prosthetic leg that was having a hard time adjusting to the winter. He'd been managing for the most part with only slight soreness, but he hadn't tested his boundaries either. He could do this though. He was used to lugging around heavy loads over his shoulder, that's what his body was built for. Not for hauling trees hunched over behind someone who looked decidedly faster than him.

"Down Houston, right?" he said.

She nodded. They were a few blocks north of that, bordering the NYU campus, which was relatively quiet this time of evening. A much better path for dragging a Christmas tree through.

"So you go to NYU?" he asked.

"Yeah, for my masters. Most of my classes are in Brooklyn though. Did you go here too?"

"No, I studied at the ICC."

"Right, you said you were a baker." He felt a small thrill at her remembering even though they had only talked about it a few minutes ago. "So, what do you do exactly? Just make desserts all day?"

"And deliver trees by night," he said dryly. She smirked at this, and he found himself smiling too. "I'm a sugar artist, so I mostly do decorating."

"That sounds less tedious."

"Try decorating 500 elaborately designed gourmet gingerbread houses in a row."  

"I meant all the flour and dough. I work at this pizzeria -- Sae's Slice. I can hardly look at the stuff anymore."

"Sae's?" He and his friends used to stop there every Friday night. It was a running joke in the neighborhood because she was unapologetically un-Italian, yet she made damn fine pizza. "That's next to that comedy club. You know Caesar Flickerman used to perform there."

"I've heard. Apparently he comes into Sae's all the time, but I've never seen him."

"That's the thing about the City. Eight million people, but you never run into the right ones."

"I'm assuming you grew up here."

"Uptown," he said. "I moved to the Village to become a proper artist."

She cringed. "And I was starting to think I liked you."

Platonically, he assumed, but he couldn't deny how pleased he was by the admission. "Didn't want to give you a false impression," he managed to say.

They approached a patch of sidewalk that hadn't been cleared very well, and the mounds of snow, which had melted during the day had turned into a sleek layer of ice and slush. Peeta felt his shoes slipping with each step and his prosthetic leg twisted painfully against his joint. He shifted his weight on the next step enough to adjust it into a more comfortable position, but already his skin was screaming. He took a few experimental steps and bit through his bottom lip to keep from wincing. 

"Okay, this isn't going to work," he said, pausing to set down the tree and lean against a nearby storefront. "My leg's about to give out."

"Are you okay?" she said, her face etched with concern. "Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"Nah, it's the slush," he said. He hesitated, telling a girl that you'd just met that you only had one leg wasn't the best pickup line. "It's bad on my knee," he lied. 

They still probably had about half a mile to her apartment. Probably a bit more. "There's a subway station coming up. Do you know what line you're on?"

"F," she said, then eyed him skeptically. "Can you take a tree on the subway?"

He grinned. "You can take  _anything_ on the subway, so long as no one catches you."

The heat from the subway was a welcome change and Peeta stripped off his hat and gloves to ruffle his fingers through his hair. They sat on the row of benches along the station wall with the tree sandwiched between them.  _Them. Her._ Peeta glanced at her through the corner of his eye. He'd never asked for her name.

He contemplated the least awkward ways to broach the topic, the question on the tip of his tongue when he heard her softly humming along to the saxophone player on the far end of the platform. He was playing some Christmas song that Peeta knew all the words to but couldn't recall the title. The humming slowly turned to spoken words, which swelled into melody, and for a moment, Peeta could swear that the entire station fell silent to listen to her sing. Even the musician had stopped playing.

The train pulled up to the platform, and he found himself so hypnotized by her spell that he couldn't remember how to stand or blink or breathe.

"What?" she said, her beaming smile betraying the questioning look in her eye.

He felt himself sinking deeper until there was no hope of breaking the surface again. He was a goner. "Nothing," he murmured.

"You coming?" she asked when he failed to move. 

She took the tree this time, while he half walked, half hobbled through the car doors, and settled into an empty seat at the end of the train with a relieved sigh. Given the time to rest, the pressure against his stub seemed to ache even worse.

"You need a mango, turmeric, and ginger smoothie," she said. She was standing across for him with one hand on a rail while the other rested on the tree to keep it balanced against the wall. 

"Huh?" he said.

"My mother's into holistic medicine -- she's a nurse. She swears by turmeric for aches and pains. You've got to put a dash of pepper in it too, it helps the body absorb the nutrients."

"Thanks, I'll have to try it."

"Ibuprofen works too," she shrugged. "Mine's the next stop," she said after the train had paused and started again.

Her apartment, thankfully, was only two flights of stairs up a four story building. It wasn't quite in Chinatown, although he wasn't sure what he'd call this part of Manhattan. Only that there were a lot of textile shops, and that she, in particular, lived above a leather store that made the entire building smell like salt.

The apartment was small with a closet for a bedroom, a tiny bathroom in the corner and a kitchen and living room that seemed to coexist. He eyed the tree and then searched for a corner of free space that would be large enough to accommodate it. It didn't seem to exist.

She counted out a few crumpled bills and handed them to him. "Thanks again," she said.

He choked on every word that came to mind.  _Not a problem. By the way, what's your name? Do you think you maybe want to get married sometime?_ And instead only smiled at her like an idiot.

"Could I get you anything? Tea? Aspirin?"

He felt his throat tighten. She was inviting him to stay a little longer. He mentally calculated how long it would take for the guys at the stand to notice he'd been missing and estimated that it was probably thirty minutes ago.

"Tea would be great," he said anyway.

"You can sit if you'd like," she said, nodding towards a love seat by the window. He watched her fill a kettle and place it on the stove before she slipped into the bathroom to retrieve a few white pills. "Here," she said, dropping them into his awaiting palm. She flinched. "You probably want a glass of water too, huh?"

"No, this is fine, thank you," he said then swallowed them dry.

The Christmas tree was secure in its stand and she took out her knife to remove the rope and netting. The branches stood stiffly, but slowly opened with a bit of coaxing until they spilled over the edge of the sofa and took up half the room.

"I think it may be too big," she said.

"Too late. It's yours now. No returns," Peeta said. He was never lifting that thing again if he had any say in the matter. He wasn't kidding anyone though. He'd probably drag the tree from Rockefeller down 5th Avenue if she asked him to.

"I can make it work," she decided. The kettle began to whistle and she moved back to the kitchen to prepare a mug.

Peeta placed a hand on his thigh right above where the socket of his prosthetic met his leg. It was throbbing from the slip, at least out of alignment, and probably scraped up pretty well too. If he wanted to fix it, he'd need to take it off and realign it, especially if he had any hopes of making it back down those steps. He eyed the bathroom and debated whether he could get the job done without coming off like a total creep.

She returned a moment later with two steaming mugs, placing one on the table before turning back to the tree to strip off a few pine needles, which she sprinkled into each cup.

"Is this another one of your mother's home remedies?" he asked.

"No," she said, looking embarrassed at being caught. "No healing powers that I know of. My father always used to add pine needles to his tea, I sort of like the taste." And by the way she said it, he had a feeling he should leave it at that.

He picked up his tea, but it was too hot to drink so he placed it back down. He fidgeted on the sofa and gripped at his fake knee again. It really hurt.

"Can I ask you a weird question?"

She looked at him quizzically. "What?"

"Could I take my leg off?" he sputtered out in a nervous flurry.

"Your what?"

He rolled up his pant leg enough to reveal his plastic shin. "My leg."

"Oh. Yes! I had no idea. Of course." Her eyes widened then softened into that look of pity he'd grown accustom to whenever someone had found out about his condition. It always made him feel uncomfortable. Like the only thing anyone could feel toward him was sorry.

"That's what you meant when you said your knee was bothering you."

"Yeah," he said sheepishly. He rolled up his pant leg a little higher to peel the silicone sleeve that held the socket into place and then the protective sock. The cool air against his bare skin was an instant relief and he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning.

"Why didn't you say something before?" 

He glanced up at her. She was standing a step closer, her hands wrapped tightly around her mug and her shoulders lifted stiffly around her ears.

"It's not exactly my most attractive feature," he admitted.

It was quiet for a moment, long enough for his wallowing to creep in, and then, suddenly she said, "You have attractive features?"

He looked at her incredulously for a long beat.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, her olive skin turning pink. "That was mean, I was joking."

He began to laugh. The kind that started with small sputters of breath and escalated until his entire body was shaking. "No. Thank you," he said. "It was funny, really. I prefer the wounded ego to the wounded foot."

"I kind of suspected something. You kept propping the trunk on your foot and I figured you were wearing steel toe boots, but I've never seen ones that look like Converse." She took another step towards the sofa under the guise of checking the tree. "Has it always been that way?"

"Was I born like this? No. It's actually all my fault, and it's not even a very good story. I was chasing around my neighbor's dog in Central Park like an idiot. I was ten or eleven at the time. And it ran off into traffic and I followed and -- BAM, right in front of a car. The dog was fine though."

"Your leg not so much."

"Not so much, no." He discreetly rubbed the raw skin of his stump. "I usually never have a problem with it, but unfortunately this one," he said, sending a pointed look towards his discarded prosthetic, "is on its last leg. I need to get fitted for a new one."

She disappeared into the bathroom again and came back with a small jar. "Witch hazel," she explained. "It's soothing. Here, take it."

"Thanks," he said, catching himself in a daze at her shy smile. He started to wonder what he was doing there. He couldn't exactly ask her out. He'd just carried a tree for her across Manhattan on one leg. Asking her out now would essentially be forcing her to say yes. He was an idiot.

He pocketed the jar and pulled his prosthetic back on. "I should probably get back. Few days before Christmas, we're probably swamped." He picked up his jacket off the chair where he'd left it and headed towards the door.

"Thank you again for the tree," she said.

He turned to offer one last cordial nod, but was caught off guard to see that she was right behind him. Her gray eyes were fixed on his and he froze in anticipation of her next move. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his cheek lighter than a whisper before she was pulling away again. But she didn't pull away, not really. She lingered there, close enough for the loose strands of hair from her braid to tickle his face.

He closed the distance more boldly this time, catching her lips with his, savoring the taste of peppermint and pine. Her hands touched his chest first, then wrapped behind his neck, and soon she was kissing him as deliberately as he was.

But then that suspicion crept up on him again. She was kissing him because she felt like she owed him. Because he was a cripple. The kiss turned sour, and he ended it with a despondent sigh. 

His phone buzzed a second later. A message from Finnick.

_Pollux said you ran off with some brunette. Please tell me you're getting laid and not murdered._

He quickly shut off the screen and smiled nervously, worried that she'd seen it too. "Now I've really got to go," he said, feeling slightly mortified. "Merry Christmas."

She returned his smile, bright enough for his mind to trick him into second guessing himself. "Merry Christmas," she said.

It was only as he sat on the F train heading back to West 4th Street that he realized he could have at least gotten her name.

* * *

Katniss munched on a stale donut and stared dully at the Christmas tree that consumed half of her living room. Prim would yell at her for throwing it out before January 6th, but now that she was gone, the tree had officially overstayed its welcome.

She picked up the pastry box and read the label one last time before dropping it in the garbage with the assortment of other bakery trash. No gourmet gingerbread houses there either. 

She couldn't remember the exact bakery he'd mentioned. It was a fancy one, that much she knew, but now in her mind, of the hundreds of bakeries in New York City, he worked at them all. She sighed. At this rate she'd eat through every last one and still never find him. 

Katniss wasn't the type to kiss strangers. She was barely even the flirting type. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd accidentally wandered into every relationship she'd ever been in.

All she knew about this guy was that he was sickeningly charming without realizing it, and she didn't mind spending time with him, and that kissing him wasn't too awful either. That didn't mean anything though. What had he said? Eight million people and you never run into the right ones. He was just the start of a long list. Chances were, she'd never see him again.

She picked some needles from the quickly drying tree and twirled them between her fingers. Unless she bought another Christmas tree. 350 days from now.

There was a knock at her door, and when she answered, she was nearly plowed over.

"What are you doing for New Years," Johanna said before the door had even closed behind her. 

"Nothing," she said flatly.

"Come out with me."

"No thanks."

Johanna sat at and propped her feet on the kitchen table, then folded her arms across her chest to pout. "You have to. I made plans with a friend, and now he's dating this girl and acting completely disgusting, and I'm  _not_ playing third wheel on New Years Eve."

"Fifth wheel," Katniss corrected timidly.

Johanna held up a silencing finger. "Don't even start with me." She set her feet back on the floor and picked up one of the bakery boxes, checked the contents under the lid and pushed it aside. "So are you coming or what?"

"This friend isn't Finnick is it?" Katniss said with a distasteful cringe. Johanna had dragged her to drinks with him a few weeks ago and his arrogant charm hadn't left her impressed in the slightest.

"Technically. It's not just him though. He's bringing a friend along with the new girlfriend."

"That doesn't sound like a third wheel, that sounds like a double date."

"Peeta?" Johanna crowed with a bark of laughter. "I don't think so." Her smile turned coy. "You may like him though."

"Friend of Finnick? I'll pass."

Johanna glanced at another box. "What's with all the pastries?"

Katniss snatched it from her grasp and set it to the counter. "Nothing!"

"I'm starting to worry about you. You don't have a blog, do you?"

Katniss rolled her eyes and moved to the tree where she began to pick off ornaments. "I sort of met someone," she said, already regretting the words before they'd left her mouth.

"I'm sorry," Johanna said, sitting up in her seat. "I think I misheard you. For a second you almost sounded normal."

"Forget it." 

"No, I'm listening. I'll be nice, I swear. You met someone..."

Katniss shrugged. "That's it."

"Fascinating story," she said drolly. 

Dropping some of the ornaments onto the coffee table, Katniss edged around the tree and picked at the needles. "I don't know his name."

"I like where this is going," Johanna said, her face brightening with uncharacteristic glee. 

"Nothing happened."

She sighed dramatically. "Buzzkill. What am I missing? Did you even talk to him?"

"Never mind, it's stupid," Katniss said evasively, unclipping the lights from the branches and winding the cord around her arm.

"You don't know how to find him again."

She didn't reply. She had known how to find him, but couldn't bring herself to seek him out before Christmas, and now she'd missed her opportunity. 

"You know what you need? One of those missed connections," Johanna said. "Most people use it for passive aggressive breakups and pretense free booty calls, but who knows, maybe he's looking for you too."

The amount of empathy that Johanna was showing her was disconcerting.

"What do you know about him?" asked Johanna.

"He sold Christmas trees."

She raised her eyebrows. "You know who else sells Christmas trees? Finnick."

"Forget it!" Katniss dropped the coil of lights into the cardboard box on the floor. 

He had delivered the tree. He knew where she lived. If he had been interested, he would have found her himself. 

"Sorry," she mumbled. "It's stupid to dwell on it. It was nothing. I'm over it."

"Fine," Johanna said. "I was only trying to help." Her smile turned wicked and Katniss knew she was in trouble. "But because you were snippy, you can make it up to me. Buy me a drink tonight."

...

Katniss held her phone close to her face as she tapped out a message to Johanna with bone chilled thumbs. They had agreed to meet outside the bar, which was why Katniss was only half listening when Johanna had relayed the name, but now that Katniss had traversed every block of the Meat Packing District, awkwardly looking through the window of any shop that looked like it served alcohol, she was ready to admit defeat.

 _Where are you?_  she typed.

_Turn around, Brainless. I can see you outside._

Katniss peered into the window and past a few crowded tables to spot Johanna waving sweetly from a booth.

Johanna, Finnick, and Annie -- as she had been introduced, were squeezed onto one bench, while the one across from them was empty aside from a coat tucked into the corner.

"Is Sam Adams okay?" Finnick asked, lifting a pitcher of amber liquid. "Now that the holidays are over, there's a rush to get rid of anything seasonal."

"Winter just started though."

Finnick held up his hands defenselessly. "Hey I don't make the rules. Blame the guy in red?"

"Santa?" Katniss said with wry amusement.

"No, Brutus," Finnick said, pointing towards the bar where a man in a red thermal was pouring drinks.

Katniss eyed the jacket in the corner and tried not to think about its owner. Across the table, Johanna had caught her staring at the offending garment and winked at her. This was a setup, she realized. She was being set up. She glared at her "friend." She never should have mentioned the stupid tree guy.

Katniss glanced towards the exit to plan her escape, but instead slipped off her coat and accepted a glass, barely sitting before she was on her feet again. "I'm going to use the bathroom," she said, hoping that a few minutes of reprieve would help calm her nerves.

She followed the signs to the alcove where the restrooms were, rounding the corner and crashing directly into an anonymous patron.

She looked up to apologize but stalled. She knew him. Wavy blond hair, impossibly broad shoulders, humble smile that was so genuine it was contagious. It was tree guy.

"It's you," she said.

He had a similar look of disbelief. His eyebrows creasing together tightly, before his face softened into an easy laugh. "Hi," he said.

She felt herself melting at his smile. "Hi," she parroted. 

"Wow," he said, leaning a shoulder against the wall for support. The way his eyes kept dipping to drink her all in made her face feel stupidly hot. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Small world."

A beat of silence passed where he just stared at her. His eyes were a deeper blue than Prim's, and beneath the warm glow of the Edison bulbs, seemed smolder around the edges with orange flames.

"How was your visit with your sister," he asked. "Did she have a good time?"

"Yeah. My feet still ache. I think we walked the entire length of Manhattan four times!"

"That's good." He nodded a few times, and from the way his jaw flexed, she could tell he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Look, I'm sorry if I kind of freaked out before I left the other night," he said abruptly. 

She felt her smile falter. He had left rather quickly, but she hadn't thought much about it outside of realizing the only point of contact she had for him was through buying another Christmas tree.

"I didn't want you to think I was a nice guy," he explained.

She narrowed her eyes. "You seem awfully nice to me."

"No -- what I mean is, I didn't want you to feel like you owed me anything. And I was kind of worried -- that because I was nice to you, you'd assume I expected..."

"I wouldn't kiss somebody if I didn't want to," she said.

"Okay," he said with a small, hopeful smile.

Her heartbeat quickened and she stared intently at her boots to avoid catching even the slightest glimpse of him in her periphery. This wasn't normal for her. She was blunt and to the point on most things -- it was one of the harsher aspects of her personality according to Prim, but when it came to feelings she was generally guarded. 

"I, uh, I wanted to see you again," he said. "But I wasn't sure how long your sister would be in town, and I didn't want to be some creep who just dropped by."

"Oh."

He combed a hand through his hair and let it linger to scratch behind his ear with a weak chuckle. "My brother tried to convince me to fill out one of those crazy craigslist ads, but it's hard to phrase:  _I was that one legged Christmas tree salesman, I know where you live_ , without it sounding like the synopsis to a horror film."

"You could have sent me a Christmas card," she suggested, then cringed at her lame attempt at flirting.

"I could have sent you a Christmas card," he agreed, bowing his head as he nodded. He stared at his feet for a moment before glancing up at her from beneath his impossibly long lashes. "I've actually been eating Sae's for every meal for the past week hoping that I'd run into you."

"I may have developed a slight pastry addiction looking for your bakery," she admitted.

He looked pleased at this, his smile brightening before he set his jaw to contain it. "Did you just get here? I'm here with some friends, but maybe I can buy you a drink. I'm Peeta, by the way," he added quickly. "Before I forget again."

Peeta. She knew that name. Her eyes widened at the recognition. "Did you come here with Finnick?"

He appeared to come to the same conclusion. "Are you Katniss?"

"I am."

"I think we're supposed to be on an unofficial date right now," he said lowly with a dry laugh that made her entire body flash with warmth. "This would almost make a really nice story -- our friends thinking we were compatible, but I'm pretty sure Finnick's only trying to get me laid."

She rolled her eyes. "You've met Johanna. I doubt her intentions were pure."

"You know, if we hit it off, we'll never hear the end of it," Peeta said. "They'll take credit even though we already know each other."

And if Johanna found out that Peeta was the tree guy, she'd show no mercy. Having mutual friends didn't complicate things, per se, but prodding at something that was barely defined in a group setting probably wasn't the best way to get it off the ground. She wasn't ready to be roasted in front of Peeta, and he probably wasn't either.

 "You want to get out of here?" he said as if reading her mind.

She did. She couldn't.

"I'm supposed to be Johanna's wing man tonight," she said. She couldn't ditch Johanna with Finnick and Annie, especially since that was the only reason she'd been dragged here.

Peeta glanced around the wall to check on their party and smirked. "I don't think you have to worry about her."

Following his line of vision, she spotted Johanna at the bar, flirting with a red head, completely oblivious to her absence. 

"Okay, let's go."

He went first, then she slipped out a few minutes later with a lame excuse about a migraine that Johanna undoubtedly saw right through.

They bought a cheap bottle of sparkling wine from the liquor store and sipped on it from a paper bag as they walked. It was freezing out, especially so close to the river, and not even the alcohol could keep her warm.

She didn't mind though. She was used to bitterly cold winters. Waking up in the dark hours of the morning to drive deep into the woods, where she'd sit perched in a tree beside her father, humming folk songs and picking off turkeys from 100 yards away. She'd never felt more at ease.

Something about being around Peeta revived those long dormant feelings. She was drawn to his presence, came alive around him. Her usually prickly exterior was no match for his modest charm.

"How's your leg?" she asked, the bubbles from the sparkling wine tickling her nose as she took a swig. He wasn't limping or anything, but there was a definite heaviness to his gait. 

"Better. Still pretty sore though. I've got a temporary socket, which will last me until the new one comes in." He accepted the bottle and took a long drink. "I should thank you. The lotion you gave me worked wonders."

"It was the least I could do. You wouldn't have hurt yourself if you weren't helping me."

"You're right," he said, smiling to himself. "It's entirely you're fault. The years of abuse I waged against it was nothing compared to the wrath of you and your Christmas tree."

She shoved her hands deep in her pockets. "There are some other treatments that might help too," she began in a noncommittal tone. "It's mostly stretches for posture alignment and massages to relieve pressure points."

"Sounds great, sign me up as a patient."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no, you wouldn't want me, I don't know the first thing about healing." In fact, she only had the suggestions because she'd grilled her mother on the topic during their obligatory holiday phone call.

"You could have fooled me. I figured you were premed or something," Peeta said, passing the wine back to her.

"No," she said, with a self-effacing laugh. "That's more up my sister's alley. I can't stand the sight of blood and puss." A shudder ran through her at the thought and she gagged with distaste. "Gross."

He plucked the bottle from her hands. "Remind me not to come to your door if I'm ever mortally wounded."

"Please, don't. That would be a terrible idea."

The sidewalk was uneven through this stretch of pavement, giving them only a narrow path to walk along. Their hands bumped together as they walked, almost imperceptibly. Then again on the next step. The third time it happened, he caught her hand with his, holding it tentatively before her glove clad fingers twisted to lock with his. He flashed her a shy smile before turning to look up the street.

"What do you study then?" he asked.

"Environmental science."

"Going to solve global warming?"

"Probably not," she said. "I've just always loved nature, and the idea of living off the land, guess I'm trying to preserve that."

"Why would you ever want to live here then?" he said, gesturing around them to the vast sea of concrete and bright lights. The only nature here was a few lonely six foot trees and some rats hiding behind a dumpster. He narrowed his eyes at her with a sly smirk. "Living off the land? You're not eating pigeons are you?"

"They're called squab, and many consider them to be a delicacy," she countered, reveling in the small thrill of his approving laughter. 

That wasn't the reason she came to New York though, she could have studied anywhere. She took a deep breath, the frigid air chilling her lungs. "My dad went to school here," she admitted hesitantly. "My mom too. That's where they met. Said he'd never trade it for anything."

He squeezed her hand gently. A small, yet powerful gesture that instantly set her at ease. "Well I'm glad you decided to come," he said.

They weren't walking anymore. She wasn't sure when they'd stopped exactly, only that now, they were balanced on the edge of the curb, and his rough wool fingers were stroking her cheek, and his eyelids were heavy as his gaze settled on her mouth.

Her heart raced and her body instinctively leaned towards his to close the distance. The kiss was too brief, only enough to awaken the stirring deep in her belly that was never satisfied. Kissing him was addictive, a single hit made her crave another. 

"Figured it's midnight somewhere in the Atlantic," he said.

It was 9:27.

They began to walk again. "Do you even know where are we going?" she asked.

He shook his head and laughed. "I have no idea. We should probably figure that out before we freeze to death."

While she liked the walking, all she could think about was more kissing. She couldn't say that out loud though. It was too embarrassing, so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I need to get rid of a tree," she said.

It must have been written all over her face by the way he looked at her, but he didn't tease her. Maybe it was because he was thinking the same thing. Instead he took her hand as they rounded the corner to head towards the nearest station and said, "You came to the right place."


End file.
